The Drustone

Chapter Twelve. Legend of the Lost Cohort

"Is that the same as the one found at the end of the tunnel in Urswick?" 

"Sure is, Rev. It's another Drustone." 

"An old man at the museum told me that these were built at sites where Druids worshipped." 

"So the Druids were here. Are these the ruins of a Druid temple?" 

"Afraid not, Henry. This was a church built before the turnpikes round the bay were constructed. All travellers used to cross the bay by crossing the sands. They used to stop here and pray for a safe passage." 

"What's the Druid connection then?" 

"Let's wait till we are settled down for the night."

Uncle Steve sat on a log beside the fire, smoking his pipe. The boys were snugly huddled in their sleeping bags, looking up, and waiting for another one of his outrageous stories. 

"You were asking before if the Druids have any connection with this place. The answer is yes. I think you know that the Druids were priests, very powerful people in Ancient Britain. They were very concerned with the workings of nature. It is believed that they were the original Sand Guides. The skills and knowledge required to make the crossings must have been passed down from generation to generation." 

"So that means if the Roman army came to investigate the mining disaster they would have to depend on a Druid to get them across the sands." 

"Right on, Rev. This probably explains the legend of the lost cohort." 

"The lost cohort? What's that, Uncle Steve?" 

"A cohort was a division of the Roman army, probably about 300 men. It is believed that one was sent from the camp in Lancaster to quell the troubles after the mining disaster. To avoid ambushes they decided to cross the sands, just like you are doing. And just like you, they chose a guide, most likely a Druid who had no love of Rome. This guide convinced them to march when he knew a wind change was in the offing. A cooling wind can create dense mists in the bay. As he expected a fog arose. The guide stole away, leaving the soldiers to their own devices. The fog thickened, the tide flowed, and an army disappeared." 

"Is that what really happened?" asked Henry, unable to conceal his excitement. 

"It's supposedly only a legend, but a couple of Roman shields and a helmet were apparently discovered in the sand. There's also a stone with a Latin inscription describing a mass drowning in the bay. It was discovered in a tomb near Aldingham. That convinced me." 

"Did the Romans ever come back?" 

"That'll have to wait for another day, Rev. It's time to snuggle down and get some sleep. We have a tough day ahead of us tomorrow." 

Soon gentle snores could be heard from three of the four bags. In the other a lurid imagination was still active.

How could people sleep with vampire bats ready to return at dawn?

Thinking it better to stay awake, Henry roused himself, and silently wandered down to the water's edge. There he crouched and watched the phosphorescent waves foaming around the pebbles. The harmonic motion of the waves and their gentle lapping sound eventually lulled him in to uncomfortable slumber. 

He awoke to the sound of creaking wheels and clanging metal. Nothing could be seen through the pervading mist. Suddenly he heard a sharp voice. The language was unknown to him. Another shout, a sound of whips, the neighing of horses; something was moving out there. The mist lifted slightly. Henry could see the shadowy outline of a column of horse-drawn wagons flanked by soldiers wearing what looked like leather clothing. It was the lost cohort. Henry yelled and ran towards them. A soldier, obviously important, as he wore metal armour and carried a stick, turned towards Henry, stared quizzically, and beckoned him to join the cohort. 

"Henry! Henry!" It was Uncle Steve. Henry was sleep walking, moving slowly through the shining surf, out to sea. Luckily the tide was on the ebb and even though Henry was almost fifty yards from shore, the water was still only ankle-deep. Uncle Steve's short sprint from the shore brought the boy in to his grasp. 

"Come on m'lad. Let's get you back to shore and safety. Looks like I'll have to tie you to a tree or something if you're going to get up to tricks like this." 

"But I saw 'em, Uncle Steve. I saw 'em." 

"Saw who?" 

"The Romans, the lost cohort, they were out there, lost in the mist, looking for land. I wanted to help them."  

"Sorry, Henry. I think you were only dreaming." 

"Wakey, wakey! Rise and shine." It was George Capes, striding through their makeshift campsite, banging a spoon on a billycan in an attempt to bring the weary boys to their senses. Uncle Steve had been up for some time, but had decided to let his charges sleep on. He felt they needed the extra rest. 

"Breakfast! Come and get it! Care to join us George?" 

"Don't mind if I do, Steve, but it'll have to be fast. The Leven will be rising soon and we have to cross." 

"Come on lads. The porridge is getting cold and your fry-up is nearly ready." 

The smell of black puddings and bacon was too tempting to resist. P.C. and Rev rushed to the fireside and were soon wolfing down a hearty breakfast. Henry meanwhile had surreptitiously made his way behind a nearby tree where he removed the embarrassing rope.

His chums would think he'd gone for a pee. Surely Uncle Steve wouldn't tell. 

Over breakfast the boys said little but listened intently as Uncle Steve gave George a censored version of their trip to the island. There was no mention of Henry's near fatal encounter with quicksand. This was the story Uncle Steve wanted them to tell their parents; it had been a simple uneventful crossing. Henry wondered how he was going to explain his sand burns. 

It was almost noon when the party eventually started on its trek towards the elegant spires of the priory. Their departure had been delayed by the tide and also because Uncle Steve and George had insisted that the campground be returned to its former unspoiled state. Now all that lay ahead of them were the grey sluggish waters of the Leven and the unpredictable sands. 

The sands however were firm, drying quickly in the morning rays. Henry was in good spirits, cheered by the sure footing and pleasant temperature. He couldn't believe his luck when he spotted the Leven. There, firmly wedged between the banks of the murky river, was a giant tree. It was a bridge; he wouldn't have to risk the watery depths. 

George, with staff in hand, and sand sled strapped to his back, probed the depths and soon found a shallow crossing for his charges. Henry refused to follow and was left foolishly alone on the bank. 

"Come on, Henry, we haven't got all day." 

"Alright I'm coming." 

It wasn't so easy. The tree was enormous, and Henry had to stretch to his limit to grip the remnant of a branch that was rising vertically from the massive trunk. Using the branch as support Henry squirmed his way on to the top of the trunk, only to realise that he was now covered in a foul smelling green slime. The trunk was broad and greasy. The river flowed a few feet below. Henry, carefully pulled himself to his feet, and then froze. Visions of lumberjacks on river runs flashed through his mind. 

"Hurry up, Henry. We want to get to shore before the tide returns," said Rev, who knew quite well that the morning tide had just ebbed. 

Spurred in to action, Henry attempted to edge his way across the slippery trunk, clenching his bare feet in a futile attempt to gain a grip on the moss. He decided to crawl across. His attempt to attain a kneeling position was his undoing. As he lowered his torso, his rucksack moved, completely unbalancing him, rotating him around the trunk. Desperately he clutched at the trunk, but to no avail, he fell flat on his back into the depths. Eyes closed, his arms and legs thrashing Henry struggled to reach the surface. He had to breathe. How deep was he? He opened his eyes. Was that the sky overhead? He sat up. It wasn't deep at all. 

The roaring in his ears vanished as his breathing returned to normal only to be replaced by a hated sound; hoots of laughter from his so-called friends P.C. and Rev.  

He never should have agreed to come on this trek.

No more adventuring for him.